


Fraility, thy name is John Watson

by cedarrapidsgirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, His Last Vow Spoilers, Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:27:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarrapidsgirl/pseuds/cedarrapidsgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A missing scene from "His Last Vow." John gets angry after Sherlock's home from hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fraility, thy name is John Watson

**Author's Note:**

> This is a missing scene from "His Last Vow", the timeframe being not long after Sherlock's released from hospital after his second visit, and right at the beginning of the "months of silence" Mary refers to at Christmas. John's back at Baker Street for now, needing space from Mary after everything that's happened. 
> 
> Much thanks to Mikahaeli8 for her support, mrasaki for always being encouraging, Bernie for being a great confidante and Annie for being an awesome friend. This fic is for Stefanie, who lets/supports me spamming her constantly on facebook with Benedict, Martin or anything Sherlock on her feed. <3

John Watson was more than a Bit Not Good. Currently he was pacing around the living room in Baker Street, working himself into a major fit of anger as Sherlock sat wearily in his chair. 

“I can’t, Sherlock! I just CAN’T” John yelled as he started another lap around the room. “You say I can trust her, but I really can’t! Maybe she didn’t mean to kill you, Sherlock, and there were other reasons for why she didn’t kill you, but still.. She shot you! You almost died. Twice!” He unconsciously flexed his left hand as he made it over to the desk. It did not escape Sherlock’s notice. 

Sherlock sighed. “Would you come over here and sit down, John? Your tea’s getting cold.” He looked over at his own cup and took it in shaking hands, trying to calm his own frayed nerves. He drank a small sip and set it back down, shoving his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown to hide his tremors. 

“Why is it I’m always supposed to be a proper British bloke and be calm and drink my tea and everything will be okay? Well, it’s NOT okay, and I DON’T WANT TO SIT AND DRINK MY TEA!” John stormed over to the kitchen table and swiped his mug off, shattering it and putting glass shards and liquid all over the floor. 

The crash seemed to shock John into silence and he stared at the growing mess at his feet until suddenly a blanket landed on most of it, covering it. He looked up to see Sherlock standing in front of him holding onto the back of John’s chair for support. Sherlock moved his foot carefully to try to contain some of the liquid in the soggy blanket, then slowly made his way back over to his chair and sat down with a hard thump, wincing as he pulled on some stitches. 

Sherlock took a deep breath and gripped the arms of his chair as he tried to keep his voice even. John, your PTSD is acting up, and so is _mine_. So now you can sit down and drink _my_ tea.” 

John first stared at Sherlock at his openness towards their mentality, but then sighed as he realized Sherlock was right and started to go over to his chair when he was interrupted. “Oh, and John, can you grab my cigarettes and bring them with you?” John frowned but grabbed them and the stolen crystal ashtray and dropped them on the side table. 

Before Sherlock could reach for them, however, John grabbed Sherlock’s lighter out of his hand, got a cigarette out of the pack and lit it expertly. He took a long drag and refused to look directly at Sherlock as he handed the lighter back. “Not one word, Sherlock. Not one. I know I’m hypocritical, just.. don’t. Not now.” 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows but said nothing, just lit his own cigarette with still unsteady hands. And this time John did notice. But also said nothing. It was finally quiet in 221B, as both men sat staring off, contemplating and processing. 

John stubbed out his cigarette and reached over for Sherlock's tea. He took a big gulp and then a deep breath. "I haven't smoked for years. Not since my army days. A lot of them did it to relieve stress, even though they knew better." John sighed. "I only did it when i was really bad. Guess I am now." 

"I'm hardly one to judge, John. You know I have more demons than smoking." Sherlock played with his lighter, debating on whether to light another cigarette. He chose not to and kept turning the lighter over and over in his hands. "You've been through a lot in the last three weeks, John. I think you're allowed some cigarettes if you want." 

John snorted. "And all you've been through the last three weeks earned you a lot more cigarettes than me." Sherlock just shrugged and John looked at him in shock. "Don't downplay this, Sherlock. You're still in a bad way and whether you want to ignore it or not, my wife shot you." John swallowed. "My-my wife, the woman I love-loved, and the woman pregnant with my child. She shot you and I’m supposed to accept that and her and you _died_ and all of it..." 

John started finally breaking down after pushing down his feelings and running on adrenaline for so long. Finally, he was left relatively alone and he was crashing hard and fast. He felt the tears coming and didn't even try to stop them. He couldn't. 

The sobs racked his body as the emotions ran through him. He felt a hand on his arm. Sherlock. John put his own hand over Sherlock's and held on for dear life. 

Finally he took some deep breaths and started to calm down, and the weight of Sherlock's hand was very strong on him. Sherlock met his eyes and removed his hand, sensing that it was bothering John. 

Sherlock went back to playing with his lighter. "You should go rest, John. You need it." 

"That's the pot calling the kettle black, Sherlock. You need the rest too. How about we both go to bed?" John rubbed at his eyes, the fatigue setting in. 

Sherlock was feeling drained as well. Too many emotions and the damage on his transport were taking its toll. “Yes, you’re right. If I want to get back to full health, I need to rest and recover.” He managed to get himself to his feet. 

John managed a small smile as he rose from his chair as well. “Now I know I need to rest, if you sound like you’re making sense, following doctor’s orders and such nonsense.” John looked at the soggy tea and blanket mess still on the floor. 

“Leave it.” Sherlock said as he stepped over it carefully and made his way into the kitchen. “We can get it later. Or maybe Mrs. Hudson will take pity on us and clean it up while we sleep.” He made his way down the hall towards his room. 

John stopped in the doorway before he went up to his room and watched Sherlock walk slowly. The detective turned and looked to see John watching him. “Just want to make sure you’re actually going to bed and not going to start a dangerous experiment or jump out the window again.” 

Sherlock grimaced a bit. “No, definitely not happening now. I just- I need to rest.” He stopped and leaned against the wall. “And maybe something to take the edge off.. I’ve overdone it.” 

John came back into the flat and got a medicine bottle down from a cabinet. He shook out a pill and gave it to Sherlock, who somehow managed to swallow it down dry. Sherlock gestured toward the bottle as John walked back towards the kitchen. “Take one, John.” John looked at Sherlock with a bit of uncertainty. “Oh, come now, don’t give me that look, John. It’s only one, it’ll help you sleep as well. I’m giving you my permission. Just, do it. Please, John, for me. I need you well to help me. And..” Sherlock trailed off, exhaustion taking over. 

“I’ll keep it in mind, Sherlock. I really will. Right now I think you need to get to bed.” Sherlock nodded and got to his bedroom with John following. He got into bed as fast as he was able and buried himself under the covers quickly, letting the dark room envelop him. 

John shut the bedroom door halfway as he left the room. He went back out to the doorway that would take him upstairs to his bedroom. But John really didn’t want to go up there right now. That room meant alone, where he had gone after the fall, alone in the flat. And now, alone from his estranged wife, with his best friend injured by her hand slowly recuperating in a nearby bed.. He couldn’t be in that room right now. He turned back into the living room and there on the sofa was a pillow and another blanket, left from Sherlock’s futile attempt at a nap earlier in the day. John headed back into the kitchen, swallowed one of Sherlock’s pills quickly with a glass of water, and sat down on the sofa. He turned to face the wall and curled in on himself and covered up. What was it he’d heard as a child? ‘Things always look better in the morning after a good night’s rest.’ Well, he hoped so. John had put up with so much of the worst lately, he needed some of the better. Comforted by the fact that he really wasn’t alone with Sherlock sleeping (and alive) on the same level as him, and aided by the pain medicine, soon John Watson was sleeping peacefully.

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah. I left this open ended, and there could be more, but I don't know. Also, smoking is bad, but some people make it look so sexy. And for some reason I thought John would smoke when very stressed. Yes, he knows better, but sometimes, he doesn't care. So, uh. yeah again.


End file.
